


No One Loves the Light

by ElvenSorceress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blindness, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Permanent Injury, Piningjolras, Slash, Soulmates, femmejolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSorceress/pseuds/ElvenSorceress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd always had feelings of a deep, ragged emptiness. An absence, a loss, a deficiency. But he could stay busy and angry and fighting, and then he didn't think about feeling so fragmented and imbalanced. But darkness was pervasive. </p>
<p>He took all his injuries to his face. The burns healed, the cuts did as well, and he was told anyone who looked at him would never know the difference from how he looked before. But he didn't know. He'd never be able to see for himself. His price for all the lives he'd ruined was his sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Loves the Light

He hadn't been born this way. There was an accident. That's what the authorities called it. A bomb at the rally. It killed five people, seriously injured twenty-three more, and they told him he was lucky. 

He was rash and foolish is what he was. Twenty eight people had been irrevocably destroyed because of him. He hadn't checked and he should have checked and it was supposed to be peaceful. They carried no weapons. They shouldn't have been attacked. He wasn't lucky. 

He'd known every single person. All the others, all the ones who survived would hate him. Or blame him or at the very least. It was reasonable. He wouldn't fault them for it. But most seemed to feel sorry for him. 

He took all his injuries to his face. The burns healed, the cuts did as well, and he was told anyone who looked at him would never know the difference from how he looked before. But he didn't know. He'd never be able to see for himself. His price for all the lives he'd ruined was his sight. 

He was terrified at first. There was so much darkness. There was always darkness and he'd never have anything else. He'd always had feelings of a deep, ragged emptiness. There had always been an absence, a loss, a deficiency. Though there'd also never been an existence that would incur such a feeling of bereavement. But he could cover up those pains easily enough. He could stay busy and angry and fighting, and then he didn't think about feeling so fragmented and imbalanced. But darkness was pervasive. 

It was better after a few months. Combeferre and Courfeyrac hadn't left his side. They stay with him, in his small apartment, taking turns sleeping on the sofa or the floor. He told them they didn't need to. He could manage. He'd have to learn to handle all of this himself eventually. But he knew they were both still there even when one said he'd gone home. 

It wasn't horrible after a while. The everyday. He learned to feel his way along the walls and find his shoes and clothes or things to eat that Joly and Musichetta brought over. But it was hard when he wanted to work. It was hard when he was upset and furious and itching to do something because he couldn't do anything by himself. He'd always need a guide. He'd always need help and he despised imposing and relying so much on his friends. That wasn't what they were for. He hated taking advantage of their history and their closeness just to do something like find a can that actually contained soup and not peaches.

He hated when people saw him as frail. A poor little blind girl trying to speak about feminism and equality. Some asked him why he didn't speak for disabled people since he had to know more about that, and he would seethe because it was in no way fair for him to talk of such things when he'd been this way for only months. Others had to spend their whole lives in wheelchairs or with prosthetic limbs, and he had no right to consider himself one of them. 

Combeferre would sometimes gently point out that his blindness was in fact a disability and that it was okay to talk about it. But it made him angry and frustrated so he'd leave. He didn't care that this was his punishment for the lives lost because of him. He could accept that. But it made it so much harder to get people to listen or to see him as something other than a lack of physical vision. 

But the very worst thing about losing his sight was not being able to read any more. He could listen of course, and did learn Braille, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't letters on a page and his eyes flitting over each word. He became distracted when most people read out loud. Their voices eventually droned or became monotonous. He'd never noticed it before. But he'd never had to pay so close attention to inflection and tempo and tone. It was difficult to follow when the voice was so level and even or when it was too upbeat or ill-fitting to the subject matter. 

He missed little things, too. There were no more videos, no more facial expressions, no more colors. There was no more visual art, and he'd so loved the bright, bold, controversial masterpieces that sought to change the world through provocation and illustration and creation. 

Emotions were so much easier to understand when conveyed through colors and shapes and movement. He couldn't look and analyze and come up with an answer. He had to categorize by other senses. 

He knew his friends' voices, naturally, but he realized they all smelled different as well. Combeferre always smelled of soap, sometimes hand sanitizer, and usually something minty. Courfeyrac smelled of freshly laundered clothes and perfume with sweet undertones. Feuilly smelled of clean sweat and something lightly smoky. Bahorel smelled smoky as well, but his had a coppery tinge and often got muddled by the smell of alcohol and disinfectant. Joly and Bossuet smelled citrusy and he could never distinguish between them by scent alone. He knew long before he lost his sight that Jehan always smelled of flowers, but it wasn't until after that he realized there was also a coppery, disinfectant tinge to his scent.

He had to feel so much more without his vision. He had to decipher things through touch, through texture and vibration. He had to pay more attention to his emotions and instincts because he had no visual gauge to use for anything. 

He lay down with his eyes closed sometimes, even though it didn't matter if they were open or closed. He tried simply to breathe and take in listening, smelling, and feeling slowly. But feelings were so overpowering and he hadn't been able to busy himself and work like he used to, and sometimes the darkness, the emptiness tore apart his insides and it wouldn't go away. 

Courfeyrac would take him out when that happened. He'd hold onto Courfeyrac's arm and walk with him through a park or a clothing store or someplace his friend deemed cheerful. They sounded cheerful enough, and there was often fresh air and liveliness and things that smelled sweet and fragrant and delicious. But it never kept the lacking away for very long. It had been so much easier to ignore when he didn't have to feel. 

It stopped once though, for a tiny brief second. His friends had taken him to lunch and someone bumped into him. The man profusely apologized and then it was gone. He turned and looked in the direction the man might've gone even though there was no way to find him. 

Joly explained that it was a waiter, no the bartender and Jehan told him the man had been at the rally. The one a year ago. They'd only seen him the one time, and when they described height and body and features - _shorter than you, muscular but lithe like a dancer, large crooked nose, tanned or light brownish skin, crooked teeth, longish curly dark hair, scars on his hands and face, blotchy flushed cheeks, wide forehead, round chin, dark eyes, haunted eyes_ \- he didn't remember anyone like that. 

He excused himself from the table and insisted he didn't need help finding the toilet, and willfully found his way to the bar instead. The bartender spoke softly, melodically almost, and apologized again once he was standing near Enjolras. 

It was close but not enough and he wanted to reach out and touch so he'd know, but also knew he shouldn't. "No, it's fine. I'm sorry, but have we met before? I can't tell."

"No," the man said and it sounded regretful. Something sad and melancholy, and Enjolras wasn't sure if he was being told truth. "Not technically. Is there something I can make for you? Or do for you?"

He pressed his lip against his teeth and just wanted to be allowed to touch. He wanted to know. What if there was something that alleviated the emptiness? If he reached out, would the man take his hand? "I was just hoping to meet you." Tentatively, he offered his hand in what he hoped was somewhere near where the man stood. "I'm Enjolras."

He waited for a moment but there was no response from the man, no acceptance of his handshake. He lowered his hand and wondered what he'd done wrong. His friends told him quite often that personal interactions with individuals were not his strong suit, but he didn't think he'd broken any of the guidelines they suggested. 

He replayed it in his mind so he could think through what he'd done while trying not to feel so rejected, and then there was someone at his side. Someone warm and intoxicating who smelled like paint and charcoal and sweat and leather and wine and rosemary, and it was sweet and rich and bright and bitter, and something about mixing all of those together tugged at his insides and squeezed his heart and took the air from his lungs. 

"Sorry. I couldn't reach you over the counter." He slid his hand around Enjolras', and it fit perfectly. All their jagged edges lined up. His eyes felt wet and he couldn't see because he could never see, but he didn't have to because he knew. There was no longer darkness. This man was light. "I'm Grantaire."


End file.
